


Whispering Wolves

by januarywren



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Courtship, Everything is Beautiful and Everything Hurts, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, King Stannis Baratheon, Mental Anguish, No Smut, Non-Graphic Smut, Not Canon Compliant, Obsession, Older Man/Younger Woman, POV Stannis Baratheon, Past Rape/Non-con, Period-Typical Sexism, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Pregnancy, Protectiveness, Queen Sansa Stark, Rape Recovery, Romance, Sansa Stark Needs a Hug, Slow Burn, True Love, War of the Roses Inspired, stansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23099410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/januarywren/pseuds/januarywren
Summary: She was beautiful, his wife.Sansa.She had a beauty that was the Maiden incarnate, words rising to Stannis’s tongue that he’d never thought himself capable of before. He was not a damn poet, nor a bloody lover like the Tyrells made. He admired the milky white of her skin, the same as the snow that covered the world outside their door. Her head just reached his chest when they stood side by side, with Sansa holding herself with unfailing grace.She wore the colors of her House, the same as he wore his.Both had pride for their lineage, though they were close to few. Stannis had Davos and his family beside him, while he knew that his wife trusted few. She had many admirers among throughout their kingdom, as she was worshipped for her beauty, and all that she had suffered during the war, on behalf of her House. Stannis knew the specifics of her suffering more than most, and the scars that her body wore.Canon, what's canon? | An ode to Stannis's love for Sansa.
Relationships: Stannis Baratheon & Sansa Stark, Stannis Baratheon/Sansa Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 203





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRedWulf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedWulf/gifts), [DaytonBay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaytonBay/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Quiet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16180484) by [DaytonBay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaytonBay/pseuds/DaytonBay). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to DaytonBay and TheRedWulf 🤍
> 
> I fell down the GoT rabbit hole when I came across TRW's work, and fell in utter love with Sansa-centric pairings. Sansa's such a wonderful character, and I ship her hardddd with Stannis, Sandor, and Jon. 
> 
> TRW always fills her stories with such romance, and adoration - she has countless stories, and all of them are worth reading. ❤
> 
> And DaytonBay - 
> 
> Dayton's work, 'Quiet', made me cry when I read it a couple of days ago. It's such a gorgeous story, and so, so heavy with its angst and hurt/comfort. Their writing style is incredible, and I can't recommend it enough. 
> 
> Both TheRedWulf and DaytonBay are incredible writers, and their work should be read by everyone. 🤍 I hope that you like this story, and my foray into writing GoT stories - I know this story is *wildly* inaccurate from canon, and entirely self-indulgent. Sansa deserves someone who will adore her, and truly help her heal, something that makes my heart melt. ❤

She was beautiful, his wife.

_Sansa_.

She had a beauty that was the Maiden incarnate, words rising to Stannis’s tongue that he’d never thought himself capable of before. He was not a damn poet, nor a bloody lover like the Tyrells made. He admired the milky white of her skin, the same as the snow that covered the world outside their door. Her head just reached his chest when they stood side by side, with Sansa holding herself with unfailing grace.

She wore the colors of her House, the same as he wore his.

Both had pride for their lineage, though they were close to few. Stannis had Davos and his family beside him, while he knew that his wife trusted few. She had many admirers among throughout their kingdom, as she was worshipped for her beauty, and all that she had suffered during the war, on behalf of her House. Stannis knew the specifics of her suffering more than most, and the scars that her body wore.

His wife held her pain close, cradling it against her breast as if it were a child nursing from her. Unlike his wife before, Stannis saw no unkindness from her; as she asked for little, and was kind to those that served her. The court was drawn to her far more than him, Stannis admitted and knew full well that the servants wished she would need them, as he often did.

Stannis often watched her, a smile on his lips when she tended to the gardens or played with a new puppy from the kennels. The hound master often brought runts to her, knowing that his Queen had a tender heart for the struggling pups. She hand-fed them herself, and wept when one passed, while most thrived because of her tender care.

She had two hounds of her own, both of them more intent on stealing lemon cakes from her plate, rather than chasing deer through the fields. Stannis had accepted one from her too, his eyes darkening when she had smiled at him. (The first time that she had ever done so.)

It was the hounds and the children that gathered around her that drew Sansa from her rooms. She had a melancholy air around her, making her beauty seem fragile, and made others long to protect her. Stannis had heard one of his wards swear fealty to her and had chuckled, though he knew well enough that the boy could when he came of age.

Stannis allowed few to come near her, knowing how she preferred the company of animals or children, to the men that filled their court. She had a handful of ladies in waiting that she found pleasant company in, as well as several young maids, nearly all of them without parents. The war had affected the entire country, no matter the side that one belonged to. 

His fingers skimmed past her bare shoulders, as he gathered her hair back. It was long and thick still, the gorgeous red color unlike any that he had ever seen before. “Shh,” Stannis murmured as she whimpered, her eyes darting to his in the mirror. “It’s alright, Sansa.”

‘You’re safe, here with me,’ he longed to say, the words like honey on his tongue. He knew it would lead to nothing but her pain, and he forced himself to swallow the words away.

Horrific things had been inflicted on his sweet wife, things that would never falter from her memory, nor would the scars fade from her body. Stannis had known war long enough to recognize that Sansa had the same haunted eyes, as his men did when covered in their first blood, the enemy writhing and crying out for mercy at their feet.

War was not a valiant pastime as the troubadours made it, nor did it refine men into valiant heroes as poets, or ministers cried. It was a filthy pastime, one that turned a man’s stomach from hearing the cries of a stuck pig, and made their hearts close to laying with their wife. Stannis knew it well, as cold as the world might think him, and he knew his wife even more.

She was much changed from the girl that he had met, the one who had curtseyed deep into the snow, before smiling up at him. With her hair in braids and a blush staining her cheeks, she had been a childish vision; one established even more, as she offered him a single snowdrop.

“ _From the glass garden, My Lord_.”

She hadn’t feared his stallion, one that had had blood stain numerous times, and stamped its feet nervously in the snow. No, the little girl had seemed to see nothing but him, ignoring the fierce, scolding whispers of her mother behind her.

Stannis had taken the flower from her, the same as if it had been a crown, in truth.

“ _Thank you, Lady Sansa_ ,” Stannis said, remembering for many moons after, the warmth of her fingers against his gloved ones. He’d pressed the snowdrop into his mother’s book of prayers, where it stayed there still.

His attention had turned then, to her waiting parents and elder brothers. Stannis had plans for the kingdom, one that he needed the Starks to support him with.

The Starks had always been loyal to the crown, vassals without fault until the Targaryen Queen had proved herself mad. Her rule had been nothing as it was supposed to be, the seers that had sung her praises at her birth, now burning for their mistake.

“ _Daenerys will take everything from us_ ,” Stannis had told Ned plainly, “ _She has no restraint, and no husband to guide her_.”

“ _Will she not take council?_ ” Ned asked, his brow furrowed.

“ _The Council is entirely her own_ ,” Stannis replied. “ _They repeat everything the woman says, the same as if they are children learning their letters by rote_.”

The beloved princess from across the channel had turned from Mary into Eve. The North withdrew their support of her, while lords at her court retained their fealty. Stannis knew that the commons were divided; some villagers clenching their thumb beneath their fingers, as if she were a witch incarnate, while others prayed for her still.

It had turned into a long, and hapless war; every acre in the kingdom painted crimson.

Families had been divided, firstborn sons and their fathers torn apart in the war. Their bodies were often trampled beneath stampeding horses, their finery soaked in blood, while their House banners fluttered haplessly in the wind. Fields were covered in bodies, the stench of burning flesh and shit heavy in the air.

And then the plague came, flooding every manor and village in the kingdom.

Stannis remembered the missive he had received from the Starks, and how quickly he had searched it for mention of the little girl’s name. _Sansa_. He would never admit how his fingers had trembled, nor how his lips moved as he read the names listed. He had felt relief when her name was absent, though his stomach had twisted at the news included.

The Stark children were alone, left without their father as he had fallen in battle, along with his eldest son, Robb, and his bastard, Jon. “ _As the gods have seen to take them away, so have they allowed my youngest to leave me_ -“

Catelyn Stark wrote, her ink strokes faltering as she wrote Rickon’s name.

It was the same in every house across the kingdom, as Houses mourned the loss of their own, and black clothed countless figures, and their rooms. Nor was Stannis' own household exempt, as his steward sent a raven to announce the death of his wife.

_Selyse_ -

It had been a loveless match, a betrothal that had been arranged in childhood and carried out in their teen years. They had little in common, their conversations filled with stiff decorum, and banalities. Stannis had never opened his thoughts to her, the same as she had never opened her heart to him. Her womb was barren, though Stannis had never sent her away.

He closed his eyes for a moment, brushing past the shame that filled him.

He had never felt for Selyse a tenth of what he felt for Sansa.

“I am sorry for how you’ve suffered,” Stannis said lowly, his hands slowly braiding his wife’s hair. She stiffened beneath his touch before he gently kissed her scalp. "I…would have ensured things went differently for you." He had been delirious with a fever after he fell during battle, his men weakened by the plague that had flooded their ranks.

He had awoken in a delirious haze, to the sight of a woman tending to him. Stannis gritted his teeth at the thought of the witch who had sought to enchant him, as he spent months healing in her small cottage. She was as slippery as a lamprey, though Stannis had known well enough, she intended on making him her slave. He had murdered her in the night after he found her communication with the Lannister's -

They were the only family untouched by the plague or battle.

As if they were blessed by the gods.

Stannis found that it wasn't the gods, but a witch and her coven, that had protected them. With the loss of their coven leader, the witches had scattered, while Stannis lost himself to hunting them. With every witch that fell, the Lannister's' hold on the kingdom loosened. 

Yet none of it had been enough to spare Sansa.

When Stannis stumbled free from the haze of the witch filled glen, he had made his way North. He hid in barns and manors, finding hesitant families who were willing to supply him with a horse, and armor. Other men decided to join him, following him as a ramshackle guard. It seemed that the gods now blessed him, Bran remarked, when Stannis found his way to Winterfell.

“The gods have abandoned everyone else,” Bran had added, his dark eyes studying Stannis. “My sister -“

There, Stannis had learned that Sansa had been pulled into the game of thrones. Cersei had sought an alliance with the North, knowing that the Northern lords would keep the others at bay. Catelyn had feared the Queen's might and allowed Sansa to be betrothed to Joffrey.

Of course, Cersei had never intended for their marriage to happen, instead imprisoning Sansa at the heart of the Lannister palace. There, numerous whispers abounded of Joffrey's cruelty, and how Sansa had wept when he was engaged to Margaery Tyrell, instead. Remembering how Sansa had been beaten on his orders, the servants wondered whether the red-haired beauty cried from sorrow or relief.

She hadn’t been spared, after the prince’s new marriage.

No, Cersei had known the value of keeping a wolf with her, as she married Sansa to Ramsay Bolton instead. Every servant and courtier in the seven kingdoms knew that the Boltons had unnatural tastes, and worshipped cruelty as some worshipped lust. With unworldly eyes, Bran confessed that he hardly looked for Sansa anymore -

“ _She suffers_ ,” he said, “ _more than our Lady Mother will ever know_.”

Stannis never saw the Stark mother, hearing that she was rumored to have gone half-mad with grief. Bran and Arya did their best to command in her stead, while Stannis found welcome among the council. The Northern lords craved someone to guide them, as they saw the Lannister’s looming near.

Within four years, the Lannister standard had fallen, with the Baratheon raised in is stead.

“Words, My Lord,” Sansa whispered, in response to his earlier apology.

She had been married to Tyrion when Cersei took her from Ramsay. There were little whispers about Tyrion having unnatural tastes, though half the kingdom knew how he frequented every whore house and dockyard. Sansa had confessed that he had never taken her since he had a woman's touch, and he knew he could father no children. 

“Words that I hope you will find are true," Stannis replied, his heart aching in his chest. He found he wanted Sansa to be happy, after all that she had suffered.

And if she could be happy with him -

His fingers trembled as he braided her hair back, using the grey ribbons that he knew she favored. It was a sight that few, aside from Davos, would believe; their king tending to his wife, the same as any handmaiden would. It had been Stannis’s own idea, as he’d begun with small touches; offering his arm to his wife, brushing crumbs from her lips during their private meals, and sitting near her while she embroidered.

He didn’t want her to fear him, as she had feared her past husbands.

Even the Hound, who had been at Sansa’s side since her engagement to Joffrey, told Stannis of how her last husband, Tyrion had been no better than the rest. _‘He paid every red-haired whore that he could to call them Sansa_ ,' the Hound had confided while sharpening his steel. He had been pleased when the imp had fallen when the capital was taken, one of his men killing him while he was with one of his whores. ' _Sick cunt_.’

Evidently, Sansa stirred something in both the Hound and her husband, as they both protected her, far more than anyone knew. Stannis allowed the Hound to stay at her side, the scowling man never far behind her when she was before their court. Courtiers whispered how their King never kept his eyes from her as if there was something in his veins besides ice.

Their whispers raised to a roar when a visiting dignitary bowed to only their king, and not their queen. Ina show of temper Stannis had forced him to the floor, shoving him to the marble with his own hands. " _You will pay respect to my Queen,”_ Stannis snarled, “ _or you will return to your Master_.”

Sansa had said nothing in response, her hands clasped in her lap.

Yet, later that night, when they dined before the court, her hand had rested atop his. It was a tentative gesture, one that had set Stannis’s heart alight. When she’d withdrawn her hand, he’d said nothing, instead cutting the most tender pieces of the boar before them, and set them on her plate.

(She’d eaten every piece.)

Stannis knew the court well enough, made up as it was with both his supporters and detractors that had survived the war. His council had equal representation of the seven kingdoms, while Davos acted as his Hand. Stannis had little interest in further war, but instead maintaining peace, and order. He knew that he wasn't a kind man, nor a kind king, but a just one.

Unlike the court that Joffrey would have led, the court had strict decorum and manners. Stannis had little desire for the floor to be painted in crimson, nor did he want a whore tucked into every corner of the palace. He allowed for much to happen behind closed doors, but not outside of them; something he found most approved of. There was an innate seeking for order, among the courtiers, now that the war had ended.

Nor was their court merely for nobility, as they opened the doors to bastards and those lowly or commonly born. There was a place for any person who came to court, and proved themselves apt; whether they had a talent as a herbalist, stable hand, or anything else that one could think of.

Distant relatives of both Stannis and Sansa joined the court too, and he knew how Sansa adored the children they brought with them. She often allowed them in her rooms, teaching girls and boys alike how to embroider, or helping them with their letters. Courtiers remarked how tragic it was that Stannis had no heir, while other, kinder, courtiers said what a lovely mother their Queen would make when the gods allowed her to be. 

There was no bedding ceremony when Stannis married her.

Stannis had written to Sansa directly after his forces had taken the capital, and he had been secured there. Within a fortnight after his letter, Sansa had come with his own guard to the palace, where he proposed to her.

He hadn’t told her that he dreamed of no other, nor that she had enchanted him since childhood. She was seven and ten then, while he was twice her age; old enough to be her father if he had lain with a maid on the eve of his manhood. He knew that he was not the knight that she dreamed of, nor the sort of prince that stories were made of.

“ _Will you be kind to me, Your Grace_?”

Her lower lip had trembled, though she hadn’t looked away. She had beautiful, blue eyes that bore into his without flinching, as he held her hand between them. “ _I…_ ” she’d hesitated, a curl slipping from behind her ear.

He’d wanted to tuck it back for her, allowing his fingertips to touch her skin.

“ _I have not been privy to much kindness from the marriage bed_.”

“ _I will treat you as you are, Lady Sansa_ ,” Stannis had told her. “ _You are an honorable woman from the North, and I will never forget that_.”

He would treat her with respect and loyalty, he knew.

Devotion, if she would allow him.

He had wrapped her in furs the night of their wedding and allowed her to cry as he pulled her flush against him. He hadn't taken her, not then, as he felt as she trembled and heard the cries that fell from her lips.

He had no desire to take another besides her, nor did he want to foist a child upon her. He was a healthy man still and could afford to wait for her to receive him, without fear.

“ _Sansa_ ,” Stannis murmured. “ _Sansa, please_ -“

He’d told her she was safe, only to have her push against him, wanting more distance between them -

“ _I’ve never been safe_ ," Sansa whispered, pressing her fist against her mouth. He had folded her hands in his and whispered that it wasn't treason to cry.

“You’re strong, Sansa,” Stannis repeated. “Stronger than anyone knows, and you are good.”

He repeated the words from their wedding night, as he finished braiding her hair. He was far better than when he'd started, Stannis admitted when her hair had been bound the same as a tangled bird’s nest. Now her hair was smoothly brushed and entwined into thick, pretty braids that hung down her back. He had learned how to make his movements quick and nimble, the same as any handmaid would.

He would do anything for her, the wife that he had claimed.

“Will you,” Sansa paused, her gaze flicking to his in the mirror. She looked akin to a fearful doe, one tentatively leaning toward a hunter, with an apple in their outstretched hand. “Will you stay with me tonight, My Lord?”

“Of course,” Stannis replied, aching to hear his name on her lips. He knew, however, that his title was all she could use, for now. He followed her as she rose to her feet, and pulled back the furs covering her bed.

They both kept their own rooms, though Stannis spent nearly every night brushing her hair, and braiding it back for her. There were nights when she would ask him to stay, nights where he held her against him, or they lay back to back, with her leg tentatively touching his.

There were other nights too when he coaxed her to relax with him, telling her about his day or diplomatic news, until he slipped his arm about her shoulder, and she laid her head against his chest. She weighed as little as a bird; the hounds that often crowded at their feet far heavier than she was.

He lived for those moments, the nights his paradise.

'I love you,' Stannis tasted the words on his tongue, as Sansa patted the place beside her. He moved to lay beside her and felt his cheeks heat as she entwined her fingers around his. 'My Queen.'

He longed for the day when she would believe him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will I ever stop writing fics for the Sansa Appreciation/Sansa Deserves Everything club??
> 
> _Never...._ 😩❤ 
> 
> (And thank you all for reading my work, even when it's wonderfully self-indulgent like this fic!) 🙌

“Stannis,” Sansa murmured, as she lay curled in his lap.

She reminded him of the pretty cat his mother once had, one with fur as white as the snow that lay outside their estate's doors, and with a penchant for love. 'My heart,' his mother called the loathsome creature and allowed it to sleep in her bed far more than his father ever did.

Stannis had often believed his mother adored the cat beyond reason, as she allowed it to climb on her shoulder, and often batted at her hands, regardless of what she held in them; a travel-stained letter, a priceless collar, or the few times that she held his own hands. He had a scar on his knuckle still, one from the cat's sharp claws that had left him smarting and resentful.

He felt neither when he regarded his young wife.

No, he often felt a twinge in his chest when he regarded her; a sensation that he had little name for. He was no poet like the bards that Sansa humored, nor the men in his company that devoted themselves to courtship, and folly. His brothers mocked him for being old before his time, endlessly amused by his grave nature. He wore the mantle of kingship around his shoulders and felt the weight of their responsibilities far before either of his brothers had. It was one that Stannis would never be free from, as he would live and die a king.

He drew circles across her back, and felt as she nestled closer to him; a soft sigh escaping her lips. It was a revelation still, the day when she had tugged on his sleeve, and brought her lips to his ear. “ _I…_ ” she’d hesitated briefly, before confessing, “ _I feel sick, Stannis_.”

Stannis had dismissed his council with a single word, before rising to his feet. It was the first time that she had entrusted him with something personal, something that was wholly hers, and he had rested his hand on the small of her back as he escorted her to their apartments himself.

“ _You must rest, wife_.”

And she had, drawing him beside her in their sumptuous bed.

When he’d awoken later, from the first nap that he’d ever taken, Stannis called for her ladies to attend to her. He knew how she disliked being alone and had handpicked her attendants, with his own spy, Emilia, among them. He would have no disloyalty in his own home, nor would he allow it near his wife.

His _queen_ -

He swallowed at the title, the intimacy he enjoyed with Sansa wholly unfamiliar to him.

A far less somber man, one who dared to smile and laugh, would have been amused at his former thoughts of marriage and ruling. Before his marriage, Stannis often thought the two were entirely separate, his future wife’s role clearly defined. Like other men, Stannis believed his wife's importance would come from her obedience, and her docility, sharing his bed in order for a male heir to gush forth from her cunt. She would find safety as a queen then, Stannis having little reason to set her aside, as long as their heir thrived.

She would temper his stern image, as she gave alms to the poor, and surrounded herself with attendants that were beyond reproach. Stannis knew he wouldn’t tolerate a woman whispering in his ear, or teasing him in their bed with ecstasy, as long as he indulged her whims. He wanted an obedient wife, and a docile queen, one that ensured his dynasty. Renly and Robert had often teased him for thinking so, both having little idea of the responsibilities that came with ruling.

“ _Don’t you wish to warm yourself with a fine cunt, brother_?” Robert often asked, leaving Stannis to turn away in disgust. Stannis would never share their reasoning, nor would he delight in a whore in his bed.

No -

The very word stung like a nettle on his tongue, as he glanced down at the vision in his arms.

She was nothing like he had expected, nor anything like the horrid wife his brothers had imagined for him. Her gentle, near fragile nature, drew him to her, instead of pushing him away. Even his closest friend, Davos, knew that Stannis had little sympathy for others, driving them forward the same as he would himself.

It came as a shock to the court when Stannis developed the same cold that his wife had, after spending his afternoons beside her. It was an unacceptable image; one his courtiers knew Stannis would never make with anyone else. There was little rumor of him taking a mistress, nor a lover from his own company, as he tended to his wife alone. He showed her more than curt affection and found himself guided by more than mere duty.

“ _Surely, he will set her aside_ ,” they whispered; knowing that a year had passed without an heir. “ _His Grace is not a patient man_ …”

They were right and they were wrong, a truth that Stannis would never comment on.

Sansa took little advantage of his protective feelings, as she carried herself with grace, and had the North in her blood. She stood at his side, unafraid when he tried members of his Council for treason and moved forth herself when one man made a pitiful attempt on his life. The man had fumbled with his dull knife, and it had barely plunged into his wife's corset, leaving her unharmed.

For that act alone, Stannis ordered a throne made that would rest beside his own. It was an unimaginable honor, only it sparked a flame within him to give his wife more. He wanted her sweet cries and her caresses, and all that she held inside. “Let me in,” Stannis longed to ask, “Let me see you.”

He wouldn’t give voice to such things, no, he never would.

His hand found hers all the same, and slowly, ever so, he drew her to him.

They shared the same rooms without thought, and she began to turn to him in the night; often awakening him to make love. It was love, Stannis thought, it was. He often covered her small frame with his own and delved inside her; groaning as she wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him closer still.

Sansa once confessed that she liked how safe he made her feel, as he let himself go, spilling his seed within her, and collapsing on top of her. Nor was he the only one that came, as he stroked her wet nub with his fingers, and made her cry out his name. They found themselves in the day as well as the night, and soon the entire castle knew what it meant when their king left for his rooms.

“My sweet girl,” Stannis said, as he buried his face against her silk tresses.

She told him impossible things, of dire wolves that roamed her family halls, and the howling wind that carried the voices of their ancestors with it. She told him things that were beyond anything Stannis had ever dreamed of, and he delighted at the color that rose to her cheeks, and the spark of life inside her. She was enticing by her very nature, making all who lingered near want to possess her.

The servants took to Sansa the same way that he had when she was a child giving him a clumsy curtsey. They sought to please her, rushing to fulfill her wishes, and often stayed near her, regardless of whether she needed them or not.

Stannis was faintly amused by the fact that the fire always roared in their rooms, and a hot bath was drawn for his wife nearly every night, regardless of the effort it took on the servants’ behalf to draw one. They carried buckets of piping hot water to fill the bath, the working quarters far from the royal bedchamber. They did so without complaint, though Stannis knew it would be a different matter if he wished for another bath drawn, for himself.

Perhaps he had weakened, as devoid of anger as he was at the thought.

His hand moved to feel the curve of her stomach, as warmth flared within him. His seed had taken root inside her, the same as his feelings for her had grown within him; making his heart her own. She was two months gone then, and Stannis was never far from her side.

He found himself feeling emotions he dared not name, at the thought of a family with her, regardless of the child’s gender. They would have more than one, Stannis knew, and he would love a girl with Sansa’s nature, the same as he would a son with her soulful eyes, and his stern mouth.

Sansa shifted in his hold, tipping her face up toward him.

“You’re here,” she whispered, a rosy pink emerging on her cheeks.

“Indeed,” Stannis said, for where else would he be? “I’m here, Sansa, with little intention to leave.”

Like a child in the arms of their mother, Sansa smiled, with happiness painted across her skin. She had lost her fear of him, as she came to look forward to his warm touch, and snuggled against him in the night. He made her feel safer than anyone ever had. “I feel the same, husband.”

And Stannis -

He kissed the bridge of her nose, knowing full well that she spoke true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chat with me: https://januarywren.wixsite.com/januarywren 🌹 
> 
> https://januarywren.tumblr.com/ 🌹
> 
> and ask for me my discord! 🌹
> 
> Beta'd by Grammarly! 🦝🖤


End file.
